A House Divided
by amoka22
Summary: On a chilly autumn evening in 1812, America finds a little boy crying on the side of a path. He brings him home and raises him as a son/brother. But a house divided cannot stand. And divided they are. Eventual Civil War fic.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia.**

* * *

America sighs heavily as he stands and exits the President's office. He had just finished a meeting with his boss, James Madison, about the current war. The War of 1812, his people are calling it. It makes him feel sick, the thought that he is fighting his brothers, Mattie and Arthur. 'No, the British Empire and British Canada, not Matthew and Arthur. Not anymore.' Alfred painfully reminds himself, wincing at how heavy, formal, and alien the titles sound as they resonate in his head, taunting him.

He shakes his head, pushing the bad thoughts to the back of his mind, as he strolls out of the White House. Outside, nature mocks his inner turmoil with a show of peace and serenity. Wispy rose, amber, and lilac tendrils of dusk are embellished by the sounds of wind laughing as it plays tag with the rustling leaves. Birds join in as they bid each other a sweet goodnight, their lullabies bouncing and swinging, harmonizing with each other. The last slanting drops of coral sunshine illuminate the gold, burgundy, and tangerine leaves on their perilous plight to earth. A clean, pleasant smell, like freshly dug earth, is the only odor. He stops for a moment, in the middle of the beaten path to town, closing his eyes and being; breathing in the heady earthy odor, listening to nature's nighttime ritual. Alfred feels all his stresses and his unusual melancholy melt away, and his tense body gently relax in the chilly autumn twilight. He lets out a breath he did not realize he had been holding, before opening his eyes and quietly continuing down the worn path, more at peace than he has been for a long time.

He passes through the town, strolling along at a leisurely pace with a small, serene smile, more than happy to leave his troubles behind him for the night. 'I'm sure glad I didn't ride Patriot to the White House this morning, it's only a half-hour walk to my house, and this really is quite pleasant.' Alfred reflects, his thought turning to his wonderful black Brumby horse. As he muses over the pros and cons of riding bareback, he almost does not hear the muffled sounds of sobbing ahead. Almost.

Alfred snaps into the present, abruptly pulled from his daydreams with the real, tangible fact that someone nearby is crying. Even as a child, he had never been able to stand witnessing people cry, or even seeing people sad. Which was why he had crept over to England when England had started crying, because England had thought France had won the right to be called America's older brother.

If possible, he was even more intolerant of crying now, because he was not able to comfort England when he so longed; to tell him that everything would be okay, and that they could and would get through this. Because he couldn't comfort him when he was kneeling on that muddy field on that rainy day. Because America comes before Alfred, and America could not show any weakness.

But now he is just Alfred, not America, so he stops and zones in on where the pitiful cries originate. 'Behind that blueberry bush. . ?' He ponders, before cautiously, yet quickly, heading behind the bush.

He freezes when he sees a boy of about three curled up into a ball, sobbing into his knees. 'He must have wandered off form the town and gotten lost.' Alfred thinks, kneeling down beside the small boy. He reaches out and gently rubs the kids back. "Hey, Kid, it's alright. Where are your parents?"

The kid starts slightly, not expecting the voice right next to his head, before picking up his head to stare at his comforter. His shoulders shake with sobs, but the little boy manages to respond, "I d-don' . . . have any . . . p-pawents, an' I've . . . n-n-never had a-any."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Alfred says, still rubbing his back soothingly. "But, why are you crying? What's the matter?" An even greater urge to calm the distressed child wells up in him, highlighted by a strange, yet familiar, feeling, the same feeling he always has around the other nations, albeit a little stifled. '…Wait, is he a nation? He said he doesn't have any parents, so maybe? But there aren't any new nations right now, nor any colonies, and my states and territories don't have personifications… So he can't be? But-' he halts his internal monologue, as the kid's sobs had dissipated to sniffles, and the kid was starting to speak.

"I-I woke up an' den- den I was all awone. I didn' know where I was. I gots scared." He leans into Alfred's touch, and turns, laying his head on Alfred's shoulder, sniffling.

Alfred freezes at the unexpected action, then smiles and relaxes, wrapping the small child in a tight yet gentle embrace. "Well, I'm here now. You don't have to be alone." He murmurs.

Alfred waits until all the remaining hiccups and sniffles die down, still rubbing circles on the boy's back, before inquiring, "Hey, are you a nation? You feel like one."

The little boy nods back, already happy. "Yea, I am. And you awe, too, 'cause ya feel wike one, too!" he giggles slightly at his convoluted sentence, throwing his arms around Alfred's neck and squeezing tightly.

Alfred laughs, a spot of warmth igniting in his chest and spreading, refusing to go away. "Do you know what land you represent?" Alfred asks, drawing back.

The kid pouts at being released, but answers nevertheless. "No. . . Should I?"

'Good question.' Alfred thinks dryly, gazing down at the boy. "Well, that depends; I wasn't sure what land I represented at first. So, I guess that's normal." He reassures the small boy, breaking into a huge smile.

"Yay!" The boy cheers, flinging his arms into the air in celebration, a grin etching its way onto his round face, the late dusk sunlight making his eyes twinkle and sparkle, like emerald stars.

'Wow, he has _really _green eyes.' He notices suddenly. 'Th-they – they look a lot like Arthur's.' Alfred thinks, stuttering over his rudimentary sentence. A sharp pang of sorrow ripples through his chest at his estranged brother's name.

"Y-Yeah. So, do you wanna stay with me?" Alfred asks, once again pushing unwanted thoughts and emotions away, regaining his chipper attitude.

"Yes, dank you, siw." The green-eyed child nation formally states, throwing a shy smile in Alfred's direction, red-rimmed eyes glancing at the ground, a slight blush easily visible on his slightly tanned cheeks.

'Awwww, he shy, that's so cute' Alfred internally coos. "Alfred, call me Alfred. Sir sounds way too formal, especially if you're staying with me."

"Ok, Alfwed. Hey, awe you my brotha'? 'Cuz you wook kinda wike me, and you'we a nation, too." He stares Alfred in the eyes, and the smile that follows reaches his forest eyes.

Alfred wants to tell him no, that he can't be, that he could do so much better with someone else as his brother. That he was a bad choice as a brother. That he had a bad track record with his brothers. French and Indian War, Revolutionary War, War of 1812: those wars were against his brothers. But, as he gazes into the innocent, serene green eyes, _'eyes that look like Arthur's' _he can't.

"Y-Yeah. I am." He looks away, and clears his throat. He stands up, offering his hand to the small child, throwing him a thin smile.

"Let's go home." His words trigger a quick flash of nostalgia as the little kid beams up at him, his emerald eyes flashing in the last slanting rays of sunshine, and firmly slips his miniature, warm hand into Alfred's.

* * *

America stood outside in the early November dusk, calling the green-eyed child in. "Hey, kid! Dinner's ready~! C'mon in, it's time to eat! C'mon, brother~!"

When he receives no response he sighs, and sits down outside, humming a tune under his breath. His little brother would come, he always does; he must have wandered too far away to come right away. That was to be expected though. He is still exploring the area around Alfr- _their _home.

'That's right, not just mine anymore, is it?' Alfred had given him a room to call his own and everything: a seat at the table, some furniture, some toys, some books- anything a kid could want.

'And really, he still doesn't have a name? I mean, really?' He groans, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. 'Well, I mean he's only been with me for a week, so. . . No, I still should've named him by now. 'Hey kid.' I mean, that just sounds so impersonal . . .' Alfred sighs, leaning back until he is flat on the ground, staring up at the November twilight.

In the distance little footsteps grow louder, before stopping a few feet to Alfred's left. Suddenly, a little three-year-old sized weight jumps on Alfred, knocking all the breath out of him. There is a furious amount of giggling, and Alfred rolls to the side, gasping for air, dragging a flailing pint-sized boy with him. The little boy squeals, alarmed, suddenly on his side next to Alfred.

"Hello Alfwed. You called fow me?" The excited tot questions.

"Yeah . . . I did. Dinner's . . . ready." Alfred gasps.

"Okay den." The child with forest eyes murmurs, curling up to Alfred. "Awe jou okay?"

"Yeah . . . just fine." Alfred wheezes, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

"Sowwy fow jumpin' on ya. I didn' mean fow it to hurt cha." He sniffles, burying his face into Alfred's shoulder and clutching the fabric of Alfred's shirt, obviously feeling bad for unintentionally and briefly harming Alfred.

A pang of surprise and worry hits Alfred. "Oh, hey now. You didn't hurt me, you just surprised me. I'm fine, just don't do that again, please." The boy lets out a shaky sob, snuggling closer to Alfred.

"Shh, I'm fine, don't worry, you didn't hurt me. Okay?" Alfred sits up cuddling his little brother, who gives off another, though quieter, sob.

"Shh, don't cry. I'm fine. Okay?" Alfred soothingly whispers, running his hands through the lightly tanned child's dirty blonde hair, just a shade darker than his own. The young boy draws in a shaky breath, slowly calming down, reassured by the older one's words.

"Okay? I'm just fine. Now why don't we go in and eat dinner before it gets cold. Yeah, let's go now. Shh, shh." Alfred murmurs, standing up and gently rocking his brother as his sniffles die down. "Okay? Dinner now?"

". . . Yea. . ." The little kid whispers, his voice still choked with tears.

"Okay, good." Alfred sighs, relieved that the waterworks had shut off, for now, at least.

"Well," Alfred says, still carrying the green-eyed nation-to-be (as they had decided that he wasn't a nation yet) into the house. "You should go to the bathroom and wash your face and hands. When you're finished with that, come and eat dinner. Then, I'll play a special game with you. How's that sound?" Alfred exclaims, trying to cheer up the still distraught boy.

"Wha' game?" The young blond snaps out of his sulk in an instant, immediately excited.

"Oh, um. . . A surprise one! I'll tell you when you're finished in the bathroom."

"Ok, den! Put me dow'!" The little kid squirms, trying to get to the promised game as quickly as possible.

Alfred laughs. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. . . Here." He sets the struggling child on his feet, laughing as he races down the hallway. "And wash them well, please." He calls after the retreating figure.

…

"Okay, so wha' was da game?" The younger, green-eyed, brother leans back in his seat at the dining table. Alfred throws a slight warning glance at him, but as they had finished dinner, doesn't reprimand Jackson for tilting his chair back.

"A special one!" Alfred exclaims, throwing his arms up in celebration.

"Yea, bu' wha' kinda game?" The small boy presses, leaning toward the blue-eyed, blond haired, fifteen year old.

"Okay, so, you don't have a name, right?" Alfred inquires, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy.

The little brother shakes his blonde head.

"Okay, so I'll tell you names, and when I say one you like, it'll be your name. We'll start with a first name, and then a middle name. So, sound good?"

"Yea!" the green-eyed boy bounces in his seat, excited.

Alfred smiles at his show of enthusiasm. 'Aw, that's so cute. I didn't think that naming him could be that exciting for him.'

"Okay then. How about. . . John?"

". . .No, sowwy." He pouts, clearly not liking 'John.'

"Oh, no problem, buddy. You don't have to apologize. How about. . . Samuel?"

". . .No."

"Okay then. Andrew?"

"Mmm. . .No."

"Hmm. . . Franklin?"

"NO!" He shouts, eyes green eyes wide.

". . .Well, then. Um. . . Benjamin?" Alfred asks, slightly wounded.

"_No._" The tot says, irate, glaring down at the tabletop.

". . . Zachary?" Alfred tries, crossing his arms on the table and laying his head on top of them.

"No." The young blond sighs. "All dese names seem too long, too . . . um . . ."

"Formal? Stuffy?" Alfred supplies.

"Yea. Anythin' else?"

"Hmm. . . Jonas?"

"No." He sighs, slumping down in his chair.

"Oh, I've got it!" Alfred suddenly exclaims, sitting straight up. He studies his younger brother, who is watching Alfred, suddenly apprehensive. "Ha, you even look like one. Jackson."

Alfred watches as his little brother mulls over the name in his head, eyes revealing satisfaction and approval. "Yea . . . YEAH!" Jackson sits up straight, and beams at Alfred.

"Okay, now for your middle name, Jackson."

". . ." Jackson suddenly appears apprehensive, again.

"Oh, c'mon. Let's just get it over with." Alfred reasons.

"… Okay. Your midda name starts wiff 'F,' wight?" Jackson agrees.

"…Yeah?" Alfred says slowly. 'Where is he going with this?' He wonders.

"I want my midda' name to start with 'F,' too." Jackson says, sending a smile that reaches his emerald eyes to Alfred.

Alfred pauses, flattered, warmth blossoming in his chest, before saying, "Okay. Um . . . How about Frank?"

". . .No."

"Um. . . Flynn?"

"Eh. . . No."

" 'F'… Foster?"

"NO!" Jackson shouts, slamming his hands on the table, leveling a fierce glare at Alfred.

Alfred pauses, raising an eyebrow. "A simple 'no' would suffice, Jackson. And don't hit the table, please, it's the only one we have."

"Wight, sowwy." Jackson says, abashed, lowering his head.

"It's ok, Jackie. Just don't do it again. Now, how about … hmm… Freeman?" Alfred questions, glancing down at the table, avoiding the glare 'Jackie' had sent him at the mention of his new nickname.

"Yes." Says Jackson, sounding assured.

"Wait, what? Was that a good, solid yes to Freeman?" Alfred asks incredulously, looking up, his cerulean eyes wide.

"Yes!" Jackson giggles, watching his older brother's expression.

"YAY~!" Alfred cheers, jumping up from is chair so quickly that it is knocked over, and doing a little victory dance.

The three year old laughs, peals of childish laughter ringing around the room. He slips off of his chair, before joining Alfred in his celebration. Alfred picks up his three-year-old brother, tossing him in the air and catching him, before holding him over him over his head.

"Hmm… Jackson Freeman Jones. Jackson F. Jones. Gotta admit, it has a nice ring to it. Almost better than my name, huh Jackie?" Alfred radiates happiness, beaming up at his younger brother, ocean eyes gleaming.

Jackson giggles, emerald eyes shining as well, "Almost betta'?" He challenges.

"Yes, almost. Though I can understand why you'd think yours is better, it's a nice, fitting name." Alfred teases. He sets Jackson on the ground, and takes his hand.

"Now c'mon, Jackson, you need a bath before bed." He announces, ignoring Jackson's groan of complaint. "If you're good, I'll read you an extra bedtime story." Alfred singsongs, dragging Jackson to the bathroom.

* * *

Jackson lay in his big bed in his big room. His room is shrouded in darkness; any monsters, ghosts, or other malevolent, ethereal spirits (he didn't know what those last three words meant, but Alfred had said them once) could be lurking in the deep, shadowy depths of his room (big brother Alfred had been teaching him new words, so he knew what all the rest meant, for the most part).

As he gazed into the utter blackness, he swore he saw something swirl. Jackson's heart rate picked up: the swirl was obviously proof of a ghost. Something was scratching on the window outside: it must be a monster! What else could possibly reach his window? Wait; listen! . . . There! Under his bed, there must be a monster, there, too. Just waiting to get him. Nothing must touch the floor; the eagerly awaiting monster would snatch up any blanket, pillow, or toy, and drag him down with it.

The only safe-place is in Alfred's bed. Alfred's bed is safe and warm. No monsters or ghosts can reach him there: Alfred repels scary things. But Alfred's bed is down the long, dark, scary hallway. Even more monsters and ghosts are down there. They'll trip him, drag him down the stairs and out the door; he'll never see Alfred again.

He can't stay here, though. The monsters and ghosts are just waiting for him to fall asleep, or to move, or to let the blanket slide down to the floor. Boom! He'd be as good as gone.

So he has to go to Alfred's room. If he steps down on the floor, though, the Monster Under The Bed will grab his ankle and drag him under. He must jump into the middle of his room, and run so fast the Monster Under The Bed, the Swirly Ghost, the Stair Ghost, the Monster In The Linen Closet, and the Monster Outside The Window won't be able to grab him. But he has to run as fast as he can, or the Wall Shadow might pull him into nothing.

Alfred's door is safe: if he reaches the door he's good. Alfred's aura keeps all the bad, scary things away.

Jackson's stomach is a mosh pit of butterflies, fear egging them on. He steels his nerves, muscles tense, and counts down. '5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . . .1 . . . . . . . . . .0!'

With a flying leap, Jackson launches himself into the center of his room, and lands on his feet sprinting. Out the door, down the hall, blazing past all the various creatures of the night, adrenaline rushing through his veins, heart pulsing in his ears. He stops suddenly at Alfred's door, not wanting to wake him if at all possible. He is slightly nervous about barging into Alfred's room in the middle of the night again. However, the Wall Shadow behind him encourages him to get over his childish anxiety and quietly open Alfred's door.

He gently shuts the wood door closed behind him, trapping the angered malicious evils out. Alfred stirs slightly. Everything is calm now; no ghosts or monsters are buzzing forattention. Everything is peaceful. Jackson tiptoes over to the center of the room, a few feet away from the bed.

"…Jackson?" Alfred groggily inquires, squinting off the side of the bed into the near-darkness.

"…Yea." Jackson says, scurrying over to the side of the bed where Alfred is looking.

Alfred reaches down and pulls Jackson up and over, so he is on the other side of the bed. "Were there monsters?" Alfred slurs, pulling Jackson into his arms.

"Yea." Jackson answers, settling his head on one of Alfred's arms. He cuddles up to Alfred.

"Well, you're safe now. Goodnight, Jackie~" Alfred murmurs. Before long, Jackson can hear quiet snores coming from him.

A slight worry worms its way into Jackson's heart: if Alfred is not awake, he can't protect Jackson form monsters. He fearfully glances around the confines of the room. But there are no monsters to be found in Alfred's room; Alfred is safe.

And with the thought that Alfred can protect him from all ghosts and monsters in mind, Jackson slowly grows drowsy in the warm bed, cuddled in big brother Alfred's strong arms that scare away monsters. He falls asleep in peace; big brother Alfred's chin resting on the crown of his head, his arms cradling Jackson's body.

* * *

…Alfred's POV…

It is August 14th, 1814, and the night is young still. Alfred had tucked his younger brother in bed early, before turning in to bed himself. Alfred sighs, stretching out on his queen-sized bed clad in worn quilts, before burrowing under the covers, and nestling in the old, nearly ancient, hand-made blankets Arthur had produced before even the first seeds of rebellion had been sowed in Alfred's head.

Alfred only uses the well-loved and weary blankets in times of stress and worry, such as wars; they give him comfort and reassurance as nothing else could; indeed, he doubts neither Arthur's nor Matthew's comforting presence could give him the strength, perseverance, tenacity, or faith he oft perceives the fragile bedcovers infuse into his very being.

Alfred, exhausted after chasing around his little brother all day, falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. Ere long, however, a horrible, disturbing nightmare blossoms. It is filled with half-distorted, half-formed pictures: the White House, his Capitol building, and various other public buildings ablaze, scarlet and deep pumpkin fingers greedily reaching up to the smoke-obscured stars, hungering to consume every last morsel. Worst of all is the burning, blinding pain in his chest.

When Alfred's eyes spring open, canvasing the dark walls of his room, the nearly intolerable pain is still present. If anything, his wakefulness has only intensified the concentrated smoldering feeling. He is still covered in sweat and panting from the all-too-real nightmare when he first screams. Biting down on his tongue, too late, he remembers his little brother, Jackson, in a room just down the hall. Desperately trying to halt another scream, he shoves his fist into his mouth, and curls up in a fetal position, pain radiating with every throb of his burning heart.

The pitter-patter of tiny footsteps sound from the corridor. "Awfwed," A sleep-lisping voice starts, "didja heaw dat? Awfwed?"

Alfred screws his eyes shut and lays as still as he can, inhaling sharply through his nose. The only thought in his mind when he hears Jackson calling to him is 'Please don't let Jackson come in here and find me like this.' His prayers go unheeded, of course, because soon after that desperate plea, Jackson pokes his head into the room.

"Awfwed? Alfwed? Awe ya in hewe?" Jackson hesitantly asks, worry coloring his tone. "Awfed? Alfwed? Alfred?!" his tone grows increasingly alarmed, until Alfred can no longer stand the stress he is putting upon his little brother.

He shakily withdraws his fist from his mouth, bleeding crimson rivulets from the force of biting back screams, and tries to reassure his younger brother. But what comes out is a choked, muffled sob.

…Jackson's POV…

"Alfwed? Wha's wong? Awe you cwying?" Jackson receives nothing but a louder, though still muffled, sob in response.

"Alfwed?" Jackson questions, grabbing ahold of the blankets and heaving himself onto the bed. A muffled whimper. Jackson crawls on top of the blankets until he is kneeling by Alfred's head. Jackson examines Alfred. Alfred's eyes are clamped shut, tears leaking out, an expression of pain plain on his face. He is curled up in the fetal position, body tense, facing away from Jackson.

Jackson leans back, still kneeling, at a bit of a loss. Now, Jackson had seen his brother cry before, not often, but once or twice. He had learned from those experiences that it was usually mental, not physical pain, which ailed his brother. The only times he had seen his older brother cry was when his cat, Liberty XII, had died, and when Jackson had stayed out much later than usual, whereupon Jackson's safe arrival home his brother has dissolved into tears, scolding Jackson for scaring him. 'But he always responds to me then! So, what's the problem?' Jackson re-examines his older brother.

Finally, the expression of intense pain on Alfred's face and the forcefully gentle, yet tense way he clutched his chest clued Jackson in that his brother had suffered some external damage. 'Well, he can't have gotten hurt sleeping,' Jackson concluded, 'so, it must be a country problem.'

'Because Alfred's in the middle of a war, he does occasionally get injuries, but he's never cried over those,' Jackson puzzles, 'so what then?' Well, when country issues arise he usually distracted himself with entertaining Jackson, Jackson knew. He could often see pain or worry in Alfred's eyes after he was home after meeting with his boss, but as he played with Jackson, it would dissipate until only a shadow remained. "So," Jackson soliloquizes, "I must talk to Alfwed."

Jackson glances down at his older brother, before leaning over Alfred, stroking his golden hair and murmuring reassuring nothings that Alfred had often told Jackson to calm him down.

…Alfred's POV…

Alfred felt horrible that his little brother was trying to comfort him in vain. He knew that if he could stop crying, sobbing, really, his little brother could relax. Jackson must've figured out it's a country problem, because he kept asking where it hurt, about what was happening in his country.

But Alfred could not stop bawling; his pain was nothing compared to his thoughts. His thoughts were plagued with pain and confusion, and he was desperately trying to sort through his inner turmoil. Alfred felt Jackson running his fingers through his hair, gently stroking Alfred's golden locks, and soothingly rubbing his back, just as Alfred had done so often to Jackson. While Jackson attempted to calm Alfred, Alfred internally prayed that his older brothers did not hate him. 'Please, just let Art- Britain have been tippling when he gave this order, and Ma- Canada have just been passive and went along with this plot.' Alfred knew, deep down in his heart, that no such thing had happened. Britain is cold and calculating in war, and Mat- Canada had wanted revenge. 'Well, he has it now,' Alfred thinks bitterly, 'and don't I know it.' A soft chuckle breaks through his sobs, humorless in irony. 'It's – it's ok. It will be okay. I don't need them anyway. I have Jackson.' Alfred reassures himself, and becomes aware that Jackson is still stroking his hair, whispering calming reassurances over him.

Alfred forces himself to calm down, sobs weakening, and hoarsely croaks out, "Jackson." Jackson replies quickly and calmly, something almost inaudible to Alfred, in the affirmative that he is hanging on Alfred's every word. Alfred wordlessly forces his arms to unwrap from around his burning torso, and holds his arms open for Jackson. Alfred feels the bed shake and sway, hissing near-silently when the movement jostles his wound, and then Jackson has crawled into his arms, retreating slightly when Alfred flinches as Jackson lightly brushes up against the deepening burn.

For a while, there is nothing but dark and the sound of breathing in the room. Alfred is occupied by his thoughts, embarrassed that he relied on his little brother to calm and reassure him. 'A little brother should never have to take care of their older brother, no matter the circumstance.' And so, plagued with thoughts that he had done Jackson a wrong, Alfred quietly whispers, "I'm sorry," his voice thick with regret.

"Fow what?" Jackson exclaims, surprise and confusion evident in his voice.

Alfred wants to answer. Wants to tell Jackson that he had put him in the comforter shoes, something that no older brother should do, (though his older brothers had done that to Alfred often enough,) but he can't; the words get stuck in his throat.

"Alfwed, listen. It's not youw fault that those people huwt you. And I was happy to hewp ya. We'we bwothews. We hewp each othew." Jackson says, curling up to Alfred and hugging around his neck.

"But I'm the older brother, you shouldn't have to help me. Besides, brothers don't always help each other…" Alfred trails off, suddenly realizing that he probably should have left off the last part, as Jackson is innocent with who exactly Alfred is fighting in the current war.

"What was that?" Jackson asks drawing back, giving Alfred a confused look.

"Nothing." Alfred says too quickly, evading Jackson's eyes.

"Yes it was. Tell me." Jackson demands.

"…"

"Tell me!"

"…"

"Tell me! Tell me tell me tell me-"

"Jackson…" Alfred sighs.

"Yes?"

"…" Alfred sighs. "Jackson… Canada and the British Empire?" He continues in a morose voice.

"The countries you'we fighting. Yeah?" Jackson replies, eager for his brother to share new information.

"… They're my big brothers. Canada and Britain."

Jackson is silent as he registers and processes the new, and slightly disturbing, information.

Alfred starts panicking at his silence. 'Aw, crap! I shouldn't've told him! I probably just freaked him out or something! What if he doesn't want to be my little brother? He knows I pretty much started this war, and how I won my revolutionary war! I did bad things to my brothers! What if...'

Alfred's internal turmoil is silenced by a fierce, yet carefully loose, hug, and the whispered words by Jackson, "I'm sowwy, Alfwed. I pwomise I won't evew huwt you."

Alfred feels tears building and overflowing, yet does nothing to halt them. He hugs his little brother back, all fears of Jackson abandoning him pacified. 'Jackson will always be here for me. Not like Britain or Canada…'

Alfred slept in peace that night, Jackson in his arms, despite the burning building in his heart.

* * *

AN: Well, first chapter done. If you're wondering what nation Jackson personifies... I think it was kinda clear... But there's a war in about 50 years that involves him and Alfred. So, tell me what you think. Worth following/reading? Best thing you ever read? Worst? Tell me any/all comments, please! And remember: more reviews=quicker updates! Have a happy new year!


	2. Missouri Compromise

**Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia.**

* * *

Alfred sighs, completely frustrated. His hand goes to his head to ward off his encroaching headache.

As Jackson had been growing more competent and intelligent, Alfred had been teaching him simple stuff that all kids should know, like arithmetic, reading, and writing. Jackson had taken to learning with an unexpected vigor; he's a very bright kid. His communication skills could still use some work, though. When he doesn't understand something, he rarely is articulate enough to explain where the missing connection is. He had, though, stopped mispronouncing his r's and l's, and this helped some.

Because Alfred is a country, and thrives on his government, he has been trying to teach Jackson about his government and his laws, as well as each state's separate laws. Not surprisingly, as the finer workings of his government can confuse even educated men, this is where Jackson often gets confused. Like right now.

"Well, you get how states are added to the union?" Alfred asks, drawing away from his hand.

"Mhmm." Jackson hums, glancing up from studying a map of Alfred's states and territories to peer at him from his seat across the table. "Are you alright? You look tired."

Alfred blinks, surprised by the childish observation. "Yeah. Just trying to figure out what you don't get." Alfred actually had been unusually tired of late; there had been a disagreement in congress lately, concerning the addition of Missouri as a slave state to the union, the remaining Missouri territory, and the addition of Maine as a free state to the union. Alfred sighs; sometimes he perceives Jackson is more sagacious than other kids his age. Or, at the very least, more perceptive than Alfred was at his age.

"About the slave states," Jackson cheerfully beams; thinking he had just helpfully cleared up a great mystery, before ducking his head back down to further examine the maps.

"Because that's not vague at all," Alfred mumbles, folding his arms on the table and leaning over them, glancing down at the upside down (from his point of view) maps scattered about the table.

"What?" Jackson chirps, pulling back up to curiously tilt his head to Alfred. "Wha'd'ya say?"

"Nothing," Alfred sighs, sitting back in his chair.

". . . Okay then." Jackson shrugs, tracing up the coast of Georgia to the coast of South Carolina with a finger.

Alfred watches him absently for a moment, before groaning and slumping back in his chair, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. Yep, there was that headache again. Alfred shuts his eyes and brings his fists up to rub them, wishing for more patience.

"Alfred. . ?" Jackson's intonation is colored with worry, the intensity of his gaze boring holes in Alfred.

"Okay, I know you don't get 'about the slave states', Jackson," Alfred starts, sitting up properly with good posture, "but what about slave states don't you get?"

Jackson tilts his head to the side like a curious puppy, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?" he innocently asks. Alfred resists the nearly overwhelming urge to bang his head in the table; their conversation had been going around in circles like this for at least an hour.

"Well, obviously, you don't understand something relating to the slave states," Alfred breathes, "So what I'm asking is _what _you don't understand about them." Forget patience. If he doesn't rectify this issue soon, he's going to go insane.

Jackson mulls over what Alfred had said, before a look of realization forms on his round, childish face. "Oh. I don't get why they aren't all slave states," Jackson says, blinking innocently up at Alfred.

Alfred freezes. 'After all that. . . He just didn't know why some states are slave states and some are free states?'

_Bang._

"Alfred. . . Um, why did you. . . Are you sure you're alright?" Jackson anxiously inquires. Not without good reason, too. Alfred had hit his head on the table so hard that the whole house had shuddered.

". . . Just peachy," Alfred groans. 'Heh. Who would've thought I'd be the sarcastic type?'

". . ."

Alfred lifts his head to glance at Jackson; he has a worried, slightly apprehensive look on his face. "What?"

Jackson keeps Alfred under his gaze, before shaking his head, rolling his emerald eyes, and replying, "Yeah. . . _Sure._"

'Oh, wow,' Alfred blinks. 'Apparently my sarcasm has been rubbing off on one young, impressionable, physically-five-year-old, country-to-be.' Alfred sits up with good posture in his seat across the dining room table from Jackson. "Don't worry, Jackie, I'm fine. So, you wanted to know why all the states aren't slave states?" Jackson nods, sitting up straight and focusing on Alfred's explanation.

"Well. . . They all started out with slaves, as in, slave states, but 16 years ago, in 1804, all states north of the Mason-Dixon Line had abolished slavery, or had passed laws to limit slavery and gently weed it out until it was non-existent. Well, except for Delaware." Upon seeing the confused look on Jackson's face, Alfred amended, "Abolished means got rid of. And the Mason-Dixon Line is. . . here." Alfred traced a line up where Delaware borders Maryland, and across where Pennsylvania borders Virginia.

"Ohh, okay. But why'd they abolish them? I mean, it's not like slavery's a bad thing." Jackson wonders, tracing the Mason-Dixon Line with his finger, before glancing up at Alfred with big, pure, innocent, jade eyes.

Alfred feels his heart freeze; the blood in his veins runs cold. "Wh. . .What. . ?" he manages to choke out, mind in a state of shock. 'H-how could anyone thing that slavery is even remotely okay, much less a _good _thing! Not only that,' he internally rants, 'but slavery is just wrong! The very thought that someone could own another person just because they're born into it, or because of their skin color, is just inconceivable!'

"Alfred?" Jackson gently drawls. The sound of his little brother's voice snaps Alfred out of his shocked reverie. Blinking, he shakes his head to clear the panicked musings.

"Well… That's your opinion." Alfred slowly starts, attempting to organize his scattered thoughts. "I guess people in the North didn't need slaves, they weren't necessary, because people in the North don't have plantations. There was no reason to keep them, so they didn't. But in the South they have plantations, so they need slaves in the South, I guess."

Alfred has to keep his opinions out of his teaching, too, because personal opinions have no place in learning. His thoughts on the matter can easily influence Jackson, because Jackson looks up to Alfred as a role model. "And some people in the North think that slavery is wrong, or at least that they shouldn't practice it. That's another reason why it's not in the North."

"That's just stupid!" Jackson bursts out suddenly. "Why would anyone think _that_? Slaves are essential and necessary to the South!" Jackson slid down in his chair slightly, pouting angrily. If it weren't for what he had just proclaimed, Alfred would've smiled; Jackson was seriously adorable sometimes.

"Again, they don't have plantations in the North, so that's a moot point." Alfred says rather sharply without meaning to, as his mind was still trying to remain neutral and sort through his jumbled thoughts. "You're liable to your own opinion, Jackson, and that's fine, but this is just for learning intents and purposes. It isn't helpful if you just start yelling; yelling won't change the North's laws and policies. In fact, it will just waste valuable learning time."

Jackson blinks a few times, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and replies, "I'm sorry. I won't do it again." He then looks down at the maps again, the very picture of remorse. Alfred feels his heart break slightly; he really hadn't meant to reprimand him so sharply. He had been stressed lately and hadn't meant to take it out on Jackson.

Alfred stands up, skirts around the table, and picks Jackson up. He hugs Jackson, sitting down, and rakes his fingers through Jackson's blond hair. "Sorry, Jackson. I didn't mean to snap at you. I've been stressed lately, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry." Alfred sighs, and continues cuddling Jackson.

Jackson nuzzles his face into the crook of Alfred's neck, and throws his arms around Alfred's neck. "'S all right. Know you didn't mean to." Jackson mumbles.

"Sorry." Alfred hesitates, gently rubbing Jackson's back. "I should tell you why." He finally decides. "I know you worry about me sometimes, and I don't want you to." He waits until he has Jackson's attention before continuing. "Okay, so, in congress, there were two different bills, one concerning the addition of Missouri as a slave state to the union, and one concerning the addition of Maine as a free state to the union.

"However, congress could not agree on adding either one into the union because the recent addition of Alabama into the union rectified the unbalanced number of slave and free states. An addition of a state is equivalent of two representatives in congress, and neither side, free nor slave, wants the other to gain the upper hand. No one likes being outnumbered, and whichever side has the numbers ultimately controls the results. This - this perfect balance - is finicky and fleeting, but with it also comes an impasse of massive sorts. Neither side will back down; most representatives of southern states have opinions that are polar opposites of the northern ones. This creates a problem.

"Fortunately, congress connected both the additions of slave state Missouri and free state Maine; Maine was admitted into the union on the premises that Missouri would also be admitted, and form a slave constitution. These measures were just recently passed. Furthermore, another amendment was recently passed that excluded slavery from the Missouri Territory north of the 36°30` parallel, except, of course, from the confines of Missouri State." Alfred finishes his absurdly long monologue, glancing down at Jackson to see if he's following.

"Ah… Okay…" Jackson slowly utters. He has a puzzled look on his face, and through his emerald eyes Alfred can observe that he is processing something. Not surprisingly. Alfred often forgets when speaking to Jackson that he is still very young, and, likewise, has a youth's vocabulary: limited. Alfred had been teaching Jackson some vocabulary, though, throwing more and more complex words into regular conversations, so Jackson would have a nice, diverse vocabulary when he grows up.

Eventually, realization gleams in Jackson's eyes, and he asks, "Finicky and f- fleeting … means… hard to find balance?"

"Yes, finicky means difficult to please; fleeting means disappearing quickly. Good job, Jackson." Alfred praises. Jackson beams back, pleased at being praised.

In all actuality, Jackson is very bright, and excellent at discerning word definitions from their context in the sentence. His leeway in his academic studies had far exceeded others' whom started learning around the same time he did; as a country, this is to be expected. Jackson, however, not only attacks his studies, but soaks up all new knowledge like a sponge, which most countries don't do. And from discerning definitions, he had gained great analytical skills.

"So, what I was just talking about is called the Missouri Compromise." Alfred finally says. "It's, like I said, relatively new." Jackson hums in agreement. They sit in silence for a moment, an idea forming in Alfred's mind. He processes it, mulls it over in his head, before finally breaking the terse silence by voicing it.

"Hey, Jackson, I think I know what land you represent. The southern part of the United States. It makes sense: you appeared in Virginia, you have much of the same opinions as people whom live in the south, and you appear to have a connection with the states in the south. What do you think?"

Jackson blinks, obviously surprised and trying to process the new information. "So… You and I both represent the United States? Why? How?"

"I'm not sure why. Maybe because the South has almost, like, a different way of life than the North? Maybe because their political views are so different than those of the North?" Alfred speculates. "Not sure why. Does it really matter?" He asks, looking down at Jackson, who is still sitting on his lap.

"Well, no, I guess not." Jackson decides. "'Cause you're still my big bwother. And we're really real brothers now, if we're the same country!" Jackson grins happily and hugs Alfred. "We'll be brothers forever 'n' ever, right?"

Alfred's heart melts. "Aw, Jackie, you're so _cute_!" He exclaims, hugging him back. " Forever and ever. You'll have to meet my-_ our _boss!"

"Promise forever 'n' ever?"

"Yes, I promise."

* * *

Okay, so I think I described the Missouri Compromise pretty well. And that fact about the Mason-Dixon Line is true.

I'm not really sure about this chapter... I didn't really want Jackson to find out right now, but it seems like the best option... Oh well ^^

Um, I hoped to get this out sooner, but I'm a slow typer, and this had to go through my beta. On a related note,** I'd like to thank my beta, ScienceWolf**, for betaing this for me. You rock!

**Remember to review!**


	3. Nullification Crisis

**Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia**

**Note: **The theory of State Nullification is the idea that a state has the rights to declare laws or taxes unconstitutional, and therefore null and void.

* * *

Alfred sighs, slightly irritated. Jackson continues pouting.

"Because," Alfred says with an edge of exasperation.

"Because _why_?" Jackson yells, stomping his foot.

"Because I said so!" Alfred snaps.

"Oh, c'mon. Please?"

"No, Jackson!" He had been doing paperwork for his boss, tucked into his desk, and bent over his work, when Jackson had come rushing in demanding something utterly absurd. They had been arguing for maybe five minutes when his patience ran out. His patience had run out three minutes ago.

"But _why_?" Jackson nearly begs.

"Why do you even want to do paperwork anyway? It's boring; go out and play or something." Alfred dismisses him, turning back to his paperwork.

"I'm part of this country, too. I'm half of it! I want the work to be equal. Plus, if I take half the paperwork, or at least _some _of it, you'll be done faster, and then you can play with me. Plus, I'm going to have to do it sometime. At least let me do some of it, so when I'm older it won't be overwhelming. We can do it gradually! And then you won't have to teach me what to do later! Please, Alfred." The six year old successfully ends on a pleading, sorrowful note, shooting Alfred the puppy dog eyes.

An unbidden wave of guilt crashes over Alfred with Jackson's words. He slides his chair back, and leans down slightly, grasping Jackson's shoulder and looking into his emerald eyes. "Jackson, I'm sorry I can't play with you more, but I have work; you're still a kid and shouldn't be doing paperwork. You should be playing," Alfred says with a gentle, remorseful tone.

As Alfred says this, though, a slightly disturbing thought strikes him. In his mind's eye, he sees himself standing where Jackson was standing, pleading with England, who sits in Alfred's spot. Not a thought, but a memory from many, _many_, years ago, Alfred didn't remember what they were arguing about now, but… the whole idea of him being like England, and Jackson being like himself was horrifying. 'Oh, God. I'm turning into England, aren't I? And that turned out _so _well for him and me…'

Jackson lowers his head, quietly murmuring another 'please,' resigned to concede defeat.

Alfred pauses as he hears the quiet, hopeless plea, and remains silent, staring blankly at the wall, weighing the pros and cons, the thought about England and him haunting his thoughts. 'Well, he'll have to work anyway eventually… Weaning him in gradually _would_ be a lot easier for him than dumping it on him all at once… but he should be playing, not working, he's still little! But look at him.' Alfred glanced down on Jackson's resigned form, an aura of defeat surrounding him, before training his gaze back at the wall. 'He really wants this… Urgh, I have to learn how to say 'no' to him! I can't keep doing everything he wants… Just say 'no.' Besides, it will actually be better if he plays like a normal kid. Wait, was this what England was thinking when I was growing up? But I'm not like England, and Jackson's not like me… Or am I? Is he? Never mind that, ignore England and his questionable parenting techniques that I may or may not be accidently using! Just… Oh, God, I don't know… Pros and cons, let's use those to decide a decision…'

At the absence of the final 'no' Jackson was sure was coming, he snuck a look up at Alfred. Alfred was staring blankly over Jackson's head, locked deeply into a reverie. The resigned aura that hovered around Jackson melted into a new aura, akin to a hopeful and excited one. "Alfred? Please, Alfred. C'mon, please! _Pleaaase_?" Jackson, who had successfully snapped Alfred out of his trance, was bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation, his begging efforts re-energized. "Please, Big brother?"

'Screw it. That final 'big brother' did me in. Who needs reason anyway?' He thinks. Alfred sighs, and Jackson immediately quiets and stills, waiting for Alfred's verdict. "Well… If you really want to…" Alfred trails off, looking at Jackson uncertainty.

"Yes, I really, really do wanna do paperwork." Jackson affirms, nodding firmly.

"…Okay then." Alfred says, wearily leaning back in his chair, refraining from adding anything sarcastic to his statement. Jackson cheers, hugging Alfred around the waist.

"But not right now." Alfred says abruptly, effectively stopping Jackson's celebration.

"What? Why not?" Jackson indignantly asks, retracting his arms and standing up straight, crossing his arms.

"Because I'm done with paperwork for today. Let's go play outside for right now; you can start tomorrow," Alfred firmly states, dragging Jackson out of his study, down the hall, through the kitchen area, and finally outside. Jackson doesn't resist, though. He always enjoys playing with Alfred, and would get to help Alfred run their country tomorrow.

Eventually, Alfred reaches a spot in their backyard he deems worthy enough, and flops to the ground, pulling Jackson with him. Jackson grumbles a little at this, but makes himself comfortable on the grass, glaring slightly when Alfred smiles as he does this. Alfred shrugs, and trains his gaze on the clouds above them. He lies on his back, arms crossed under his head, legs out straight, staring up at the clouds. Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred sees Jackson very carefully mimic his position, looking at Alfred and back at himself several times, before deeming himself as lying exactly like Alfred, and settling down to watch clouds with him. Alfred bites his lip to keep from laughing as he witnesses this. Jackson is honestly the most adorable thing ever sometimes.

"Ooh, look!" Alfred exclaims, pointing toward the lazy afternoon sky. "That cloud looks like a piano!"

"Really? Where?" Jackson questions, squinting, trying to follow Alfred's finger to the cloud.

"The one I'm pointing to!" Alfred impatiently gestures, trying to stretch his arm up further.

"…Which one?" Jackson asks.

"I'm only pointing to one!" Alfred yells, waving his hand around.

"I don't see any that look like a piano!" Jackson shouts.

"You're looking in the wrong place!" Alfred counters.

"No, you're pointing in the wrong place!" Jackson yells.

"I am not! My finger's right on the cloud!" Alfred indignantly yells, jabbing his finger up into the air.

"I don't see it!" Jackson shouts, not even taking the time to look.

"You're looking in the wrong place! Look to the left… Your other left! …Now up…No!" Alfred exclaims, finally scooting over to Jackson, placing his head next to his, and then pointing at the piano-cloud. "There! Look right up my arm to the sky. See it?"

"…"

"See it?!"

"…That doesn't look like a piano."

For a moment, Alfred looks like he's going to explode from frustration, but then he suddenly relaxes. 'Patience,' he reminds himself.

"Oh, whatever," he sighs to Jackson, moving back to his place on the grass, resuming his previous relaxed position.

They spent a few minutes in a contenting silence under the warm, sunny, afternoon sky, with Alfred occasionally breaking it to point out a pretty bird, cloud, or tree, before Jackson decided to broach a country issue.

"Hey, Alfred," Jackson quietly says, successfully drawing Alfred's attention away from the clouds above them. Alfred gives a lazy hum to affirm that he's listening, eyes still locked on the heavens. "I was wondering if we could talk about South Carolina." This really grabs Alfred's attention, as he stiffens, and actually responds with a verbal answer, albeit a slightly cool answer.

"What about South Carolina." It's a statement, not a question, which says, 'drop it.' Alfred is now glaring at the fluffy white clouds silhouetted by the azure sky.

Jackson pauses, noticing the tone and the glare, before cautiously instigating the topic once again. "I was thinking we could talk about the taxes," he says in a carefully neutral tone.

"You mean, about how the tariff is the same for all the states, yet how South Carolina has declared both the tariff of 1828 and the tariff of 1832 null and void?" Alfred says, a slight edge in his voice, before rolling over onto his side and leveling a piercing gaze at Jackson. It's a silent challenge, one that Jackson isn't sure he wants to take. Jackson glances away from the intense stare, looking at the vibrantly green grass instead. He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves.

"No, I mean about how the tax is very high, and Europeans don't want to trade with the South, or America in general, now, because of the tax," Jackson states, accepting the challenge, meeting Alfred's gaze with a stony stare nearly as unnerving, his tone bold and radiating annoyance.

Alfred's eyes narrow. "That was the point. To promote American-made materials and products over that European crap. Besides, the tariff _has been _lowered," Alfred said.

"Not low enough," Jackson states, an edge in his voice, too.

Alfred inhales sharply, before rising into a sitting position. "Then how low is 'low enough,' Jackson? Because I thought that when most other states agreed on this lower tax, that it _was_ low enough."

"I don't know how low, but I know that, as of right now, it isn't low enough." Jackson angrily says, sitting up too.

"Jackson, you know _I_ can't do anything about the taxes! It's up to our boss what to do about the taxes!"

"You can help; I know you influence your boss!"

"My boss is considering sending troops in! You'd better hope South Carolina and our government can compromise on a tax 'low enough' soon!"

"What do you mean, 'considering sending troops in'? Tell him not to!"

"I have been! And the tariff isn't a bad thing! After the War of 1812, I was afraid that too much trading with Britain might re-start the War! It's a protection tax! I'm trying to protect you!"

"The South was okay with the 1816 tariff, but when it ended in 1819 we didn't need or want another one!"

Alfred sighs, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to his head to rub his temples. "Jackson, I'm doing the best I can. I'm on your side; I want to make you happy. Just don't fight me every step of the way, please." Alfred's tone is soft, now, and he sounds exhausted. "Please. I have faith that our government will work things out. Let's not fight. Okay?" He opens his eyes and pulls his hand away from his temples, looking a now-calm, abashed Jackson. "Okay?"

"Okay," Jackson murmurs, "and I'm sorry."

"Me too." Alfred sighs, and pulls Jackson into a tight hug, running his fingers through Jackson's short, silky blond hair.

The wind suddenly blows, cold and moist, awakening Alfred to his surroundings. He had been so occupied with Jackson that he hadn't noticed the sun disappearing behind the darkening fluffy white clouds. The air was thick with moisture, and dark grey ominous clouds completely covered the dreary sky. "Oh, Jackson, I think it's gonna rain. We need to go inside." As Alfred says this, a few raindrops spatter on his forehead.

"Alfred, it's raining!" Jackson cries, a few drops landing on him too. Clumsily, he disentangles himself from Alfred's hug and then falls backwards. At this Alfred laughs, springs up, and grabs Jackson's hand to help him up. It starts raining harder, and Jackson squeals as the rain starts dripping down his face. Alfred starts running, pulling Jackson along with him as the rain gets harder and the wind picks up.

After an incident in which Jackson tripped, Alfred picked him up and carried him to the door, and a brief struggle with the door, they, dripping and tracking in mud, finally arrived inside.

Jackson shuts the door with a bang, and Alfred takes off their shoes and lights an oil lamp.

"Go on up and change, Jackson. Leave your wet clothes by the fireplace to dry out. I'll light a fire after I'm done cleaning up this mess. And then I'll make dinner." Alfred says, gesturing to the muddy floor around the door.

Jackson nods and runs off, his feet pounding up the stairs and to his room.

Alfred sighs, takes off his sodden shirt, wrings out the hems of his pants so they won't drip, and walks to the living room to place his shirt near the fireplace. He stops by the linen closet on the way back to grab some towels.

Alfred walks back into the kitchen, which contains the door to outside, and presses a towel to his pants to wick away most of the water. He then crouches over the muddy spot, and carefully wipes up most of the mud and water with that same towel. Then Alfred goes to the sink to rinse out the dirt. With the now clean, but damp towel, he goes over to the still slightly dirty floor and wets it down again. He throws the damp, now dirty, towel into the sink and lays the dry towel over the damp floor. In the background, he hears Jackson tromp down the stairs and throw his clothes next to the fireplace. Jackson runs down the hallway and into the kitchen as Alfred rubs the floor dry.

"Can I help?" Jackson asks, coming to a skidding halt next to Alfred's head, not noticing as Alfred flinches away. Alfred stands up, looking around at his handiwork.

"No, I'm finished here… Actually, yes. Take this towel and set it out to dry next to-" Jackson snatches the towel out of Alfred's outstretched hand and takes off down the hallway. "-NEXT TO OUR CLOTHES." Alfred shouts at Jackson's retreating back.

Alfred smiles, shaking his head, and walks over to the sink, rinsing the dirt from the towel again and wringing it out thoroughly. Jackson charges into the room again. "Can I help with anything else?"

"No. Just go up to your room and play, I'll call you when dinner's ready." Alfred replies.

"Okay!" Jackson cheerfully replies, running down the hallway and bouncing up the stairs.

Alfred chuckles, heading in to the living room and lies the damp towel on the brick mantle around the fireplace. He then sighs as he notices the condition of Jackson's clothes and the towel Jackson brought in: balled up and crumpled. They'd get mildew-y and wouldn't dry if they stayed like that. Alfred gently smoothes the garments and towel, lying them on the brick mantel also.

After a few minutes, he has kindled a fire, and is ready to make dinner. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room says it's 4 p.m. He walks into the kitchen, and looks through the pantry. Some potatoes, some herbs, some lentils, some carrots he had picked earlier. Lentil soup it is.

Since Alfred had started raising Jackson, his cooking skills had improved tenfold. He had always been better than Britain at cooking, but not by much. He had figured that Jackson deserved better food than he had had (when Britain was over that is, because when he was little and Britain was gone, Britain paid a maid to look after him). As it was, when he was young, France had often come over while Britain was gone 'to try to save his notion of good food,' and left several cookbooks in his possession. Not that he had given a damn at the time, but they sure came in handy now. The tips, at least. No way was he raising Jackson on French food.

He puts a lid on the soup, leaving it to simmer, (it'd be done in an hour,) before heading upstairs to play with Jackson for a while. Actually, he should probably give Jackson a hot bath, just to make sure he doesn't get a cold from earlier. He hadn't actually gotten a cold yet, but there was a first time for anything. Jackson wouldn't like it, but it was better than getting a cold.

Jackson put forth a valiant effort, but in the end, Alfred won the following argument, and a defeated Jackson tried to retain his dignity as he took a warm bath. Then they ate an extremely tasteful rendition of lentil soup, and Jackson played while Alfred did the dishes. They changed into pajamas, and Alfred began teaching Jackson how to play chess. Alfred then decided they would try again tomorrow, and decided to play checkers. Alfred read Jackson some fairy tales, tucked him in bed, kissed him good night, and left him to sleep.

Alfred retires to his room to read a book for a while, _Pride and Prejudice _by Jane Austen. He isn't quite sure he likes it, but it's interesting.

After about two hours Jackson comes sprinting into his room claiming he had seen a ghost. Alfred tries not to smile, and pulls Jackson into bed with him. He marks his place in his book, and blows the candle out. Jackson nuzzles into his chest and curls up in his arms. Alfred brushes Jackson's golden hair aside and places a kiss on his forehead.

As they fall asleep together, Alfred thinks, 'I know I'm not perfect, but no one is. I'm doing the best I can, and that's pretty good. Raising a kid is really hard, and tiring, and frustrating, but at the end of the day, it's all worth it.'

* * *

**[Historical Note: **After the War of 1812, a tariff (tariff of 1816) was put in place to both promote American manufacturing over Europe's, and to discourage trading with the Brits, as it was feared that too much trading might cause arguments, and re-start the War of 1812. The tariff expired in 1819, but a new tariff was put in place after this. The South was okay with the first tariff, but opposed the final tariffs, (most southerners and some northerners had opposed the tariff of 1828, and the tariff of 1832 was a compromise tariff, which received support from half of the southerners and most northerners).

The most notable opposition was when South Carolina declared both the Tariff of 1828 and the Tariff of 1832 unconstitutional and null. The taxes were unenforceable after February 1, 1833. And in mid-Febuary, two bills passed, one authorizing the President to use troops on South Carolina, and one with a lowered tariff. South Carolina accepted the lower tariff, and repealed the Nullification Ordinance in the beginning of March, no troops needed. This touched on the question of state rights, which wasn't really answered until after the Civil War.**]**

**A/N: **A look into Alfred's life with Jackson! I hope you enjoyed it!

About my updates... they will probably be two to five weeks apart.

I would like to thank my awesome beta, ScienceWolf, and everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited! You guys are awesome!

**Remember to review!**


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